


The Anchor

by White_Ibis



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition, Firefly
Genre: Alternate Universe - Firefly Inspired, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, F/M, Science Fiction, Spaceships, Western
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-02-14
Packaged: 2018-03-12 20:08:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3353681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/White_Ibis/pseuds/White_Ibis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The final attempt to resolve the Templar Civil War has ended in the fiery explosion that has torn the small planet of Haven apart and has left the Chantry leaderless and scrambling for answers.</p><p>Former Knight-Commander Cullen Rutherford has escaped out to the boarder planets in search for some solace from this chaos. This attempt at a quiet life is disturbed when a Seeker approaches him with the task of 'retrieving' the weapon responsible for this attack. The Anchor. </p><p>If only Cullen knew of all the trouble this one last job would cause.  </p><p>A/N: Cullen-centered, AU loosely inspired by Firefly-verse, and rating is for later chapters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Anchor

The pale violet glow of the infirmary 'in use' light blinked lazily on the eastern wall, illuminating the otherwise empty room in the soft bursts. The only sound he could hear were his own ragged breaths as he crammed himself underneath an examining table. Charred flesh stung at his nostrils and he wondered how it was possible the stench could last in the air for so long. 

A dark shadow crossed passed the large clear windows, causing his stomach to tighten. Not again. No, not again. The only solace he knew was that the creature was restricted to that side of the glass. He had scared it away numerous times, this would be no different. He was strong, he reminded himself, he had to be strong.

Then he heard it.

The small methodical beeps of a digital keypad being tinkered with. The murmuring of voices on the other side. I couldn’t be. It wasn’t possible. Scurrying out from his only place of security he quickly searched with frantic hands for something, anything. A cool hard glass finally met his palm, an old IV bottle. Right as his fingers grasped around the neck the soft slide of metal doors opening came from behind him. Two sets of footsteps, one lighter than the other.

“Thank The Maker!” How dare it speak in her voice like that. “I was so afraid that we wouldn’t make it in time but Alister-”

Turning on his heel he faced this abomination disguised as the sweet faced woman with red hair. The one he felt safe around. The one he swore to protect before she was taken from him. She looked different than before, clad in metallic grey and black armor, hair cut into a neat bob. But those eyes, those eyes never could change. The same blue eyes that met his from across the room and grew wide as he raised his makeshift weapon over his head. 

“Whoa there buddy!” A male voice was heard, smooth but with a familiar accent. That’s right, he had heard two people enter.

The man to her left raised his firearm made of smooth white metal, the sharp red glow in the barrel made him wince his eyes. Yet, puzzling enough, the man's hand was not placed on the trigger and though he held himself with confidence there was an air of unfamiliarity between him and the rifle. 

“Nice E-765.” He scoffed. “Which one of my brothers did you pick it off of?”

Now his finger looped over the thin metal lever, all too steady. Target beam flickered to life resting just over his heart. “Don’t want to hurt you. Just put the bottle down.”

“Alister, don’t.” The woman pleaded. “He’s just confused.”

Alister only grew more rigid and unblinking. Perhaps he had been bewitched by the demon as well. His hand slowly let go of the bottle neck, letting it loosely tumble to the ground with a crack. He took a couple steps back until he hit the counter, feeling the room rapidly becoming smaller by the moment.

“Leave.” He hissed through tightly clenched teeth. “Leave demon!”

“We’re here to save you.” Voice barely a whisper. Why did it sound and move so much like her, so much like Amelia? Which memory was it emanating this time?

“No.” He ran a hand feverishly through his hair, gripping it tightly and shutting his eyes. “It’s a trick.”

“It’s me.” It was different than before, her voice was soft and gentle. Almost like it was when she first was assigned to his vessel as a young girl. “Why don’t you recognize me?”

Flames licked inside him. How dare it try to do this to him. Tempting him with the one thing he always wanted but was forbidden to have. He closed his eyes tighter and for a moment the room was still. Was he finally alone again?

Slowly, he let himself open them again only to see the two still remained. Alister had lowered his weapon and placed a sturdy comforting hand on Amelia’s shoulder. His expression a strange mix of pain and pity. Her small white hands clutched at a pendant around her neck, eyebrows twisted up with concern.  

“It worked every other time.” He muttered under his breath, slowly releasing the hold on his head. “I close my eyes but-but you’re still here.”

He expected her to lash out at him. To shove him. To slit his throat effortlessly as the others had done. Instead she stared at him with those icy blue eyes. Those eyes that once only looked at him with compassion now slowly filled up with tears. Why did she look so scared? Could demons even feel fear?

Thin lips parted saying a word. No, a name.

_His name._

“Stanton.” The voice beckoned to him from far away. “Stanton!”

A small jolt went through him, causing him to grip his pool cue harder. Dim lanterns hung lowly from the scrap metal ceiling casting a yellow and orange glow over the green velvet tables. His thumb and index rubbed at the bridge of his nose, trying in vain to relieve the pressure in his forehead.

That’s right, he was stripes and it was his turn.

Quickly glancing across the table he remembered that there were only three balls left but his opponent had two. A slight upper hand but not enough to cost him the game. One striped ball sat next to the right corner hole, the second near the lower middle left, and the third in the center of the board. Taking the small brick of blue chalk he marked the end of his cue, considering his next move.

It would be tempting to aim for the one near the corner pocket but risky, although rewarding, to try something a little more difficult.

“Come on now, lad.” The yellow tooth man itched under his bowler cap impatiently. “Don’t got all day.”

He felt his scar on his lip tighten as he gave a quick smirk and slowly moved to the other side. Yes, the bowler hat man had tried to trip him up by hitting the cue ball towards the easy target but how little did he know. The blonde man bowed down close to the table, taking aim, and suddenly took his shot with a quick methodical jab of the cue. The white ball struck against the wall, ricocheting off the side and grazing the blue striped ball near the left hand side causing to to lazily spin in a clockwise motion into the side pocket.

That alone would have been a fair move but the white ball did not halt there. It continued on its trajectory and slammed into the green stripe making it find its way home into the corner pocket.

The man in the bowler hat sucked in his breath with a sneer and the man to his right, completely ball besides the large red mustache, let out a hearty laugh before taking a large gulp of ale.

“That’s how you do it!” The mustache had a faint line of foam in it. “That’s how you do it, Stanton!”

"Harritt, keep it down." Stanton sighed so heavily that his shoulders rose and fell. He gave his companion a sharp look, teeth gritting. The ginger man gave him a sheepish smile as his right hand did its’ best to smooth out his facial hair. Somewhere a feminine chuckle tore him away for a moment, causing him to instinctively look across the room.

It was only by chance that he glanced up and saw the black haired woman spectating the game while she sat at the bar. Well, spectating as well as she could underneath those dark circular glass lenses. Her hair was short, surprisingly so, but still had a braid woven into her crown. The style seemed very familiar. Was it from the Nevarra or Tiventer settlements? He could never tell.

There was an even more curious man to her right, significantly older and far more brooding with his back turned to the game. Shoulders were drawn in a tight hunch, heavily conveying to the world around him that he was not comfortable in his surroundings.

The woman must have noticed his gaze for she gave him a small courteous nod with an enigmatic smile. Where had he seen her before?

“Still your turn man!” Harritt slapped him on the back, causing him to refocus on his game. “Lets get this over with.”

“Um, yes. Of course.” The final shot was lined up easily enough so when he sharply struck the colorless ball once more it hit the target back into the hole below.  

Suddenly the remaining solid color billiards blink out of existence and are replaced with the words ‘Stripes Win!’ boldly hovering over the table with a weak fizz of digital fanfare sputtering out from the speakers below. The man in the bowler hat growled, throwing down his cue on the green felt.

“Now.” Stanton crossed his arms with satisfaction. “I believe you now owe me seventy credits.”

“Not fair!” His opponent stamped his foot stubbornly. “You cheated!”

“Then inform me of how I cheated with a digital billiard set.”

The man sneered as his grip on his mug tightened before splashing out the contents on Stanton’s face. Harritt burst into a fit of laughter before taking a few cautious steps back to clear the field.

“Very well.” He his eyes clear with the blue sleeve of his collared shirt. “I still don’t see how that proves your argument.”

The now empty mug came spinning towards his head, narrowly avoided by a step to the right and let it crash into the wooden pillar behind him. Stanton’s hands moved faster than his mind as they quickly flipped the heavy end of the cue toward his opponent before bringing it down hard on the side of his face. The rod released a satisfying pop as it struck the man’s jaw, causing him to stumble back.

He knitted his teeth into a snarl before thrust himself forward at Stanton, quickly grasping the wooden pole with both hands and holding it out, causing the would be attacker to run throat first into it. Both feet flew out from underneath the man, sending him thudding to the ground in a fit of coughs and wheezes.

“Seventy credits please.” Stanton rested the end of the pool cue by the downed man’s face.

Still the man refused to budge so Stanton reached down and rummaged through the side pocket of his opponent’s stained black coat. Pulling out a surprisingly small coin purse he eyed and shook the contents suspiciously. Satisfied, Stanton pocketed it and took a few steps back, releasing his fallen foe. The man rose up, mouth full of curses and blood, and dejectedly stumbled back up towards the bar.

“Ha! The look on his face.” His mysteriously quiet friend had now found his voice once more. “Looks like you still got it.”

A lethargic set of claps interrupted Harritt from going on further. The two men looked up at the source to see the mysterious woman from the bar approaching with heavy booted footsteps. The harsh looking older man that was with her quickly followed in tow, the long frown lines of his face looked even deeper in the dusky lighting of the bar.

“You want to have a go with my man here?” Harritt gestured with his mug gleefully. “Four games already tonight and no losses.”

His challenge was ignored as the woman came to a stop a couple paces away from him. Her long black immaculate trench coat made her seem even taller and slim than she already was. Stanton’s eyes caught a glimmer of silver on her lapel, an all seeing fiery eye stared back at him.

“Don’t think the Seeker has come to play, Harritt.” Stanton whispered under his breath.

“Knight-Captain Cullen Rutherford I presume.” A black gloved hand loops around the hinge of her even darker lenses of her glasses, removing them and exposing the hazel eyes that laid beneath. Lips curved up into a sideways smile as the mystery woman examined him. “You’re, how do you say, simpler to find than I imagined?”

Her words made him knit his gold eyebrows together and jaw tighten. How far would he have to run to not be referred to by that name? How far would he have to go to simply disappear? 

“Cassandra Pentaghast,” She extended a hand in a greeting. “Seeker and right hand of the now deceased Divine Justinia.”

Cullen remained unmoved by the display of formality, casting a quick glance between the hand extended and the owner’s face. She slowly lowered it once she realized it was met with disapproval.

“Pardon me.” Voice heavily feigned civility. “It’s simply a name I haven’t heard in quite some time.”

“Many would not consider a year to be a long time.” Her tongue clicked at him softly. 

“Well,” Cullen responded in a puff of laughter. “time moves slower out here. It’s a simpler life.”

“Just cut to the chase, Cassandra.” The older man whined over her shoulder. 

Authoritative boots took two punctual steps towards him. “As Chancellor Roderick is quick to reminded me: there isn’t much time.”

“Very well. As the man said, get to it.”

Her lips parted into a small satisfied smile.

“We have a job for you.”  


End file.
